‘Which is exactly what was predicted when the Pentagon war-gamed it.’
‘Did they? I don’t think Bobby knows that.’ George would tell him tomorrow.
‘It’s not generally known, but they ran two war games on the effect of bombing North Vietnam. Both showed the same result: an
increase
in Vietcong attacks in the South.’
‘This is exactly the spiral of failure and escalation that Jack Kennedy feared.’
‘And my brother’s eldest boy is coming up to draft age.’ Maria’s face showed her fear for her nephew. ‘I don’t want Stevie to be killed! Why doesn’t Senator Kennedy speak out?’
‘He knows it will make him unpopular.’
Maria was not willing to accept that. ‘Will it? People don’t like this war.’
‘People don’t like politicians who undermine our troops by criticizing the war.’
‘He can’t let public opinion dictate to him.’
‘Men who ignore public opinion don’t remain in politics long, not in a democracy.’
Maria raised her voice in frustration. ‘So no one can ever oppose a war?’
‘Maybe that’s why we have so many of them.’
Their food came, and Maria changed the subject. ‘How is Verena?’
George felt he knew Maria well enough to be frank. ‘I adore her,’ he said. ‘She stays at my apartment every time she comes to town, which is about once a month. But she doesn’t seem to want to settle down.’
‘If she settled down with you, she’d have to live in Washington.’
‘Is that so bad?’
‘Her job is in Atlanta.’
George did not see the problem. ‘Most women live where their husband’s job is.’
‘Things are changing. If Negroes can be equal, why not women?’
‘Oh, come on!’ George said indignantly. ‘It’s not the same.’
‘It certainly is not. Sexism is worse. Half the human race are enslaved.’
‘Enslaved?’
‘Think how many housewives work hard all day for no pay! And in most parts of the world, a woman who leaves her husband is liable to be arrested and brought home by the police. Someone who works for nothing and can’t leave the job is called a slave, George.’
George was annoyed by this argument, the more so as Maria seemed to be winning it. But he saw an opportunity to bring up the subject that was really worrying him. He said: ‘Is this why you’re single?’
Maria looked uncomfortable. ‘Partly,’ she said, not meeting his eye.
‘When do you think you might start dating again?’
‘Soon, I guess.’
‘Don’t you want to?’
‘Yes, but I work hard, and don’t have much spare time.’
George did not buy this. ‘You think no one can ever live up to the man you lost.’
She did not deny it. ‘Am I wrong?’ she said.
‘I believe you could find someone who would be kinder to you than he was. Someone smart and sexy and also faithful.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Would you go out on a blind date?’
‘I might.’
‘Do you care if he’s black or white?’
‘Black. It’s too much trouble, dating white guys.’
‘Okay.’ George was thinking of Leopold Montgomery, the reporter. But he did not say so yet. ‘How was your steak?’
‘It melted in the mouth. Thank you for bringing me here. And for remembering my birthday.’
They ate dessert, then had brandy with coffee. ‘I have a white cousin,’ said George. ‘How about that? Dave Williams. I met him today.’
‘How come you haven’t seen him before?’
‘He’s a British pop singer, here on tour with his group, Plum Nellie.’
Maria had never heard of them. ‘Ten years ago I knew every act in the hit parade. Am I growing old?’
George smiled. ‘You’re twenty-nine today.’
‘Only a year off thirty! Where did the time go?’
‘Their big hit was called “I Miss Ya, Alicia”.’
‘Oh, sure, I’ve heard that song on the radio. So your cousin is in that group?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘I do. He’s young, not yet eighteen, but he’s mature, and he charmed our cantankerous Russian grandfather.’
‘Have you seen him perform?’
‘No. He offered me a free ticket, but they’re in town tonight only, and I already had a date.’
‘Oh, George, you could have cancelled me.’
‘On your birthday? Heck, no.’ He called for the check.
He drove her home in his old-fashioned Mercedes. She had moved to a larger apartment in the same neighbourhood, Georgetown.
They were surprised to see a police car outside the building with its lights flashing.
George walked Maria to the door. A white cop was standing outside. George said: ‘Is there something wrong, officer?’
‘Three apartments in this building were burglarized this evening,’ the cop said. ‘Do you live here?’
‘I do!’ said Maria. ‘Was number four robbed?’
‘Let’s go look.’
They entered the building. Maria’s door had been forced open. Her face looked bloodless as she walked into the apartment. George and the cop followed.
Maria looked around, bewildered. ‘It looks the way I left it.’ After a second she added: ‘Except that all the drawers are open.’
‘You need to check what’s missing.’
‘I don’t own anything worth stealing.’
‘They generally take money, jewellery, liquor and firearms.’
‘I’m wearing my watch and ring, I don’t drink, and I sure don’t own a gun.’ She went into the kitchen, and George watched through the open door. She opened a coffee tin. ‘I had eighty dollars in here,’ she told the cop. ‘It’s gone.’
He wrote in his notebook. ‘Exactly eighty?’
‘Three twenties and two tens.’
There was one more room. George crossed the living room and opened the door to the bedroom.
Maria cried: ‘George! Don’t go in there!’
She was too late.
George stood in the doorway, looking around the bedroom in amazement. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said. Now he saw why she was not dating.
Maria turned away, mortified with embarrassment.
The cop went past George into the bedroom. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘You must have a hundred pictures of President Kennedy in here! I guess you were a fan of his, right?’
Maria struggled to speak. ‘Yes,’ she said, sounding choked up. ‘A fan.’
‘I mean, with the candles, and flowers, and like that, it’s amazing.’
George turned away from the sight. ‘Maria, I’m sorry I looked,’ he said quietly.
She shook her head, meaning that he had not needed to apologize: it had been an accident. But George knew he had violated a secret, sacred place. He wanted to kick himself.
The cop was still talking. ‘It’s almost like a, what do you call it, in a Catholic church? A shrine, is the word.’
‘That’s right,’ said Maria. ‘It’s a shrine.’
* * *
The programme
This Day
was part of a network of television and radio stations and studios, some of which were housed in a downtown skyscraper. In the personnel department was an attractive middle-aged woman called Mrs Salzman who fell victim to Jasper Murray’s charm. She crossed her shapely legs and looked at him archly over the top of her blue-framed spectacles and called him Mr Murray. He lit her cigarettes and called her Blue Eyes.
She felt sorry for him. He had come all the way from Britain in the hope of being interviewed for a job that did not exist.
This Day
never hired beginners: all its staff were experienced television reporters, producers, cameramen and researchers. Several of them were distinguished in their profession. Even the secretaries were news veterans. In vain Jasper protested that he was not a beginner: he had been editor of his own paper. The student press did not count, Mrs Salzman told him, oozing compassion.
He could not go back to London: it would be too humiliating. He would do anything to stay in the US. His job on the
Western Mail
would have been filled by someone else by now.
He begged Mrs Salzman to find him a job, any job, no matter how menial, somewhere in the network of which
This Day
was a part. He showed her his green card, obtained from the American Embassy in London, which meant he had permission to seek employment in the States. She told him to come back in a week.
He was staying at an international student hostel on the lower east side, paying a dollar a night. He spent a week exploring New York, walking everywhere to save cash. Then he went back to see Mrs Salzman, taking with him a single rose. And she gave him a job.
It was
very
menial. He was a clerk-typist on a local radio station, his task to listen to the radio all day and log everything that happened: which advertisements were aired, which records were played, who was interviewed, the length of the news bulletins and the weather forecasts and the traffic reports. Jasper did not care. He had got a foot in the door. He was working in America.
The personnel office, the radio station and the
This Day
studio were all in the same skyscraper, and Jasper hoped he might get to know the people on
This Day
socially, but it never happened. They were an elite group who kept themselves separate.
One morning Jasper found himself in the elevator with Herb Gould, editor of
This Day
, a man of about forty with the permanent shadow of a blue-black beard. Jasper introduced himself and said: ‘I’m a great admirer of your show.’
‘Thank you,’ Gould said politely.
‘It’s my ambition to work for you,’ Jasper went on.
‘We don’t need anyone right now,’ Gould said.
‘One day, if you have time, I’d like to show you my articles for British national newspapers.’ The elevator came to a halt. Desperately, Jasper kept going. ‘I’ve written—’
Gould held up a hand to silence him and stepped out of the lift. ‘Thanks all the same,’ he said, and he walked away.
A few days later, Jasper was at his typewriter with his headphones on and heard the mellifluous voice of Chris Gardner, the host of the mid-morning show, say: ‘The British group Plum Nellie are in the city today for a show tonight with the All-Star Touring Beat Review.’ Jasper pricked up his ears. ‘We were hoping to bring you an interview with these guys, who are being called the new Beatles, but the promoter said they wouldn’t have time. Here instead is their latest hit, written by Dave and Walli: “Goodbye London Town”.’
As the record began, Jasper tore off his headphones, jumped up from his desk – in a little booth in the corridor – and went into the studio. ‘I can get an interview with Plum Nellie,’ he said.
On air, Gardner sounded like the kind of movie star who always played the romantic lead, but in fact he was a homely-looking man with dandruff on the shoulders of his cardigan. ‘How would you manage that, Jasper?’ he said with mild scepticism.
‘I know the group. I grew up with Dave Williams. My mother and his are best friends.’
‘Can you get the group to come into the studio?’
Jasper probably could, but that was not what he wanted. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But if you give me a microphone and a tape recorder I’ll guarantee to interview them in their dressing room.’
There was a certain amount of bureaucratic fuss – the station manager was reluctant to let an expensive tape recorder leave the building – but at six that evening Jasper was backstage at the theatre with the group.
Chris Gardner wanted no more than a few minutes of bland remarks from the group: how they liked the United States, what they thought about girls screaming at their concerts, whether they felt homesick. But Jasper hoped to give the radio station more than that. He intended this interview to be his passport to a real job in television. It had to be a sensation that rocked America.
First he interviewed them all together, doing the vanilla questions, talking about the early days back in London, getting them relaxed. He told them the station wanted to show them as fully rounded human beings: this was journalists’ code for intrusive personal questions, but they were too young and inexperienced to know that. They were open with him, except for Dave, who was guarded, perhaps remembering the fuss caused by Jasper’s article about Evie and Hank Remington. The others trusted him. Something else they had yet to learn was that no journalist could be trusted.
Then he asked them for individual interviews. He did Dave first, knowing that he was the leader. He gave Dave an easy ride, avoiding probing questions, not challenging any of the answers. Dave returned to the dressing room looking tranquil, and that gave the others confidence.
Jasper interviewed Walli last.
Walli was the one with a real story to tell. But would he open up? All Jasper’s preparations were aimed at that result.
Jasper placed their chairs close together, and spoke to Walli in a low voice, to create the illusion of privacy, even though their words would be heard by millions. He put an ashtray next to Walli’s chair to encourage him to smoke, guessing that a cigarette would make him feel more at ease. Walli lit up.
‘What kind of child were you?’ Jasper said, smiling as if this was just a light-hearted conversation. ‘Well-behaved, or naughty?’
Walli grinned. ‘Naughty,’ he said, and laughed.
They were off to a good start.
Walli talked about his childhood in Berlin after the war and his early interest in music, then about going to the Minnesänger club where he came second in the contest. This brought Karolin into the conversation in a natural way, as she and Walli had paired up that night. Walli became passionate as he spoke about the two of them as a musical duo, their choice of material and the way they performed together, and it was clear how much he loved her, even though he did not say it.
This was great stuff, a lot better than the average pop-star interview, but still not enough for Jasper.
‘You were enjoying yourselves, you were making good music, and you were pleasing audiences,’ Jasper said. ‘What went wrong?’
‘We sang “If I Had a Hammer”.’
‘Explain to me why that was a mistake.’
‘The police didn’t like it. Karolin’s father was afraid he would lose his job because of us, so he made her quit.’
‘So, in the end, the only place you could play your music was the West.’
‘Yes,’ Walli said briefly.